Lips
by HeiHeiTstesetyun
Summary: Alexianos knows that drinking is common in Finnish culture. That doesn't make Tino's alcoholism any less painful to witness. A melancholy one-shot that ends on a light note. ArmeniaXFinland, HayastanXSuomi.


Why won't you walk straight? Why won't you stop stumbling and slurring? Why, why, why do you keep doing this to yourself? I take you by the arm. I'm upset with you- so, so angry that you went to the bar again, but that's not the most pressing issue at the moment. I want to get you home safe. I want to make you drink a gallon of water, and I want to be there to comfort you when you finally wretch out the toxin. It's the only thing I can do now.

You laugh and cling to my arm. It could seem so harmless to a bystander. You're always happy at first- when the buzz hits, you feel great. It's only after another few drinks that the depression and anxiety sets in, and your problems are revealed to you and intoxicate you more than the liquor does. You kiss me as we walk out the door. I don't brush you off (I don't want to embarrass you), but you taste of spit and vodka. I wish I was kissing your pure, pale, sober lips- not your soiled, flushed, drunken ones. You laugh as I drag you along with me and almost slip over a patch of ice. I catch you. With uncoordinated movements, you try to back me into the wall next to us, but I easily stop you. A seed of shame settles in your mind, but in a second, it's gone, and you're singing. You try to twirl away from my grip; you skip like a child often does. You are a child, not the man I know and love.

"Alex'nos," you laugh, as though you've said something incredibly funny, "let m' have som' fun, huh?" You wink and trail your finger underneath my coat. I ease your hands away and lead you up the stairs, into our apartment.

You almost trip as we ascend, and I decide it would be easier just to carry you. This is tough- it pains my 5'6'' frame- but I manage to bring you up the steps and over the threshold, lying you down on the bed.

You clutch the collar of my shirt and kiss me, your tongue sloppily parting my lips. I back away.

"No," I hear myself say, "Not while you're drunk."

You look at me and frown, mumbling "Y' never want it, anyway."

I take off your coat and slip you into pajamas, ignoring your advances. I slip you into a robe- you won't need it now, but when the cold sets in, you will.

I take off my own clothes, quickly stepping into flannel nightwear. You whistle at me. An ugly thought pops into my head- I wish you would do that when you're sober.

I kiss you on the forehead and get you a glass of water from the kitchenette beside the bed. You shake your head, eyeing the cup suspiciously. I press it to your lips and gently, as gently as I can, ask you to drink it. You do. I realize you've reached the next stage- paranoia.

I take the cup away, and your body tenses.

"Doesn't taste like w'ter," you slur, and I realize just how drunk you are.

"You know this is me," I remind you, "Alex-jan. Your husband."

"How d' I know y're not som'one t'at looks like 'im?"

"I am Alex," I state again, "you are in our bed. This is our apartment."

You stand up quickly, as though the bed had just burned you. "Why are y' so _boring_?" you ask quietly before raising your voice in pitch to imitate me, "_Look at me, 'm Alex! I don't drink, ev'r! 'm the perfect Christian! _Well, 'f yer so _perfect_, then why ar' ya with _me_, huh?"

I brush off your immature comments. Now is not a time to be sensitive. "I'm with you because I love you; because I know how good you are, and how much you're worth, even if you've been spiraling downward for the past three months. I'm not perfect."

"Shoulda just fucked the guy 't the bar," you mumble, then raise your voice, "This marriage 's failing- you'd _like_ an excuse t' leave me!"

"I want no such thing!" It takes me a moment to realize that I had just yelled at you. I soften my tone, "I want this to work. I love you so much, but you're _hurting_ me like nothing ever has before. If you don't stop drinking, I can't handle this."

"Y're tryin' t' change me! I can't be 's _holy_ 's you! Shoulda married a saint 'f ya wanted that! Maybe that's what 't is after all. Never wanted t' end up with a guy? Fuckin' me goes against yer mores, that's it?"

I feel my patience begin to snap. "There is nothing wrong- morally or otherwise- with two men loving each other, and I have never believed differently," I speak darkly, "And maybe we're so sex-deprived, I don't know, because you're always drinking? I refuse to sleep with you when you're drunk because it's _wrong_! It's wrong because you aren't in a state to consent. Have you ever realized that? Have you ever even considered how much I love you? The fact that I moved _from_ Armenia to a country of people that stare at me whenever I walk down the street, the fact that I've sacrificed night after night to walk you home when you're too intoxicated to do that yourself, the fact that I promised you forever- does that mean _nothing_ to you?"

Your eyes, wide and violet, fill with tears, and I regret yelling. However, I don't regret what I said- you needed to hear it. I needed to get through to you.

"Jan," I sat next to you on the mattress and laid a hand on your shoulder, "I know you took the loss of your job hard. You couldn't have helped that the company collapsed. It wasn't your fault. I know that moving out was difficult, and I know that you wanted to push forward when we had to put everything on hold. But now? Now you're hurting yourself. And that hurts me. I love you so much, and seeing you do this to yourself is more painful than you realize. I won't ask you to get help right now, but when you sober up, we're going to talk about rehab."

You nod your head and blink out the tears. Your mouth quivers, and I cup your chin gently to stop the shaking in your jaw.

"I want you to start loving yourself. Your depression has more to do with than just the bottle. We're going to get you better- I know we will."

You lean your forehead on my shoulder and cry silently into my arm. You've never done this before- I feel a bit uncertain of what to do. I simply rub small circles in your back and wait until you're finished.

The next morning, you wake before the sun rises and vomit twice. I hold you as you join me in bed.

"I'm going to get help," you say in a quiet, but strong, voice, "And I hope you won't allow me do otherwise."

I kiss you. The fact that your mouth tastes of bile means nothing- your lips are pure again.

A/N: Alcoholism is a huge problem in Finland, and sadly, is one that is taken lightly. Finnish men are usually unwilling to share their emotions with others, and think that therapy is "for the weak." Alcoholism destroys families and lives- I have friends in Finland that have felt the first-hand effects of it. Depression is also an issue facing many Finns- I'd almost go as far as to say it's somewhat coded in many Finns' genetics. All of the Finnish members of my family have suffered from anxiety or depression- but, we all thankfully have learned to deal with it in a productive manner. Depression and anxiety should be taken seriously, and are not things that one can easily overcome on his or her own. If you suffer from anything that Tino has in this story, please find help. You'll be glad that you did!


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